


one day at a time

by finalizer



Series: home [3]
Category: Villains Series - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Humor, Slice of Life, post-Vengeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: He wouldn't trade this for anything—this family they had pieced together.Or, the challenges of co-parenting a sort-of-teenager with superpowers.
Relationships: Mitchell "Mitch" Turner/Victor Vale
Series: home [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777369
Comments: 23
Kudos: 70





	one day at a time

**Author's Note:**

> this doesn't have a plot i just missed them very much

“I’m gonna fail math.”

Mitch frowned. “But you’re great at math.”

They were seated at the round kitchen table. Dol chewed on something unidentifiable underneath it, jostling against their feet.

It was Friday morning, one of the rare occasions Sydney woke early enough to join them for breakfast before school. Most days, she didn't stumble out of her bedroom until a quarter to eight.

“I’m sick of the homework.”

She stared at her cereal as she spoke, stabbing at it with her spoon like it was the root cause of all her problems.

“You don’t do it?”

She shook her head.

“Any of it?”

“Not if it’s not a challenge. I know all this stuff already. You guys taught me all of it already. I asked for advanced assignments once and was told I gotta do all the easy stuff first. But I don’t wanna waste my time on that.”

They had a variant of this talk once a month on average. Sydney thought school was too easy. Sydney complained—she had better things to do, like read her pile of nonfiction books or watch her _animes._ Mitch listened attentively to her concerns. Sydney scowled for a few days and aced her classes anyway.

She looked too young to _not_ be in school. Sacrifices had to be made for the sake of anonymity, to make them all look normal, to keep them all safe.

“You’re the one who wanted to go to a real school,” said Victor.

He sat across from Mitch. His eyes were on his phone; not once did he look up to join the conversation. Beneath the table, he shook his leg, unable to sit still even when singularly focused on the article he was reading. He had a blanket draped over his shoulders, his hair soft and unstyled, finger-brushed out of his face, white gold in the pale light.

Mitch found himself staring. He did that a lot, more so now that he was no longer afraid of getting caught. Victor, through no fault of his own, was very distracting.

A great deal of effort was necessary to tune back in to what Sydney was saying.

“I only said that because I was tired of moping around the house all day. I was bored. How was I supposed to know this would be even more boring?”

Victor made an unpleasant noise. “You say that like you'd never gone to school before.”

“Well,” hummed Sydney, mouth full. “I think Mrs. Wright is gonna call one of you in for a talk. I think she thinks I’m being difficult, or something. Probably Victor. She always calls Victor. I think you scare her,” she said to Mitch. “It’s probably the tattoos.”

Mitch had a hunch it wasn't the tattoos.

He sighed. “We talked about flying under the radar. Keep your head down, don’t draw unnecessary attention to yourself. We can’t afford the scrutiny. We’re supposed to be in prison. No, _he’s_ supposed to be dead, and you’re—you’re too smart to be getting in trouble for your grades, kid.”

“Should I be getting in trouble for other stuff, then? Do you want me to punch someone? Like Donny, when he stares at girls in PE? Should I steal his lunch money?”

“ _Sydney_.”

“You know what else bothers me? Why couldn't you have come up with a different cover story? That the two of you adopted me, or something—then I could just call you both by your names. It’s _so weird_ , when I’m at school or out about, and I have to go through a whole conscious process to remember to call Victor _dad_ and not _Victor_. That is fu—that is messed up.”

“As if you haven't slipped up plenty of times and called him that anyway.”

“That’s beside the point,” she shot back. “You’re as much my dad as he is, technically—”

The way she spoke was very refined. Petulant, yet precocious. In developmental years, she was a teen; in age, 20-something. Strangely enough, both parts coexisted in her little frame. She was a moody brat, but clever, mature.

“—but that doesn't mean I want to be calling you both that. You’re just Mitch. He’s just Victor. Can I suggest, next time we skip town, once it starts getting really obvious that I’m aging about as rapidly as Edward Cullen—”

Victor frowned at that, a tiny crease appearing between his brows, but he did not look up from his phone. He continued to pretend he wasn't following their back-and-forth.

“—that we change up the story so that neither of you are my real dad? One of these days I’m gonna forget and call him _Victor_ and a lot of people are gonna have a lot to say.”

“Syd,” said Mitch, “the last thing we want to do is make you uncomfortable. You know that. But—”

Sydney scoffed. _“But,”_ she echoed.

“Being able to pass you off as Victor’s daughter is an advantage. You two look the part; it would be a shame not to use that. People are less likely to ask questions. They don't dig. Worst case, they ask where your mother is.”

“She’s not in the picture,” Sydney recited dutifully, sarcastically, like she was rehearsing a bad script for the thousandth time. “My dad remarried. Now, I have two dads. Mitch is the cool one.”

At that, Victor finally raised his head.

“You’re an awful little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl.”

“Fine. You’re an awful medium-sized girl.”

“Remarkable how you decide to contribute to this discussion only when your coolness comes into question.”

 _“Et tu,_ Mitchell?”

To that, Mitch merely gave him a smile.

Victor’s face twitched, like he meant to mirror it but could not remember the motions. The faintest hint of amusement curled at his lips. It was so fond a look it made Mitch’s chest ache. The softness in those cruel blue eyes threw the whole world off balance.

He couldn't believe this was his life. If _Mitch-at-Wrighton_ found out how _Mitch-ten-years-later_ was living, he’d have a fit. 

Mercifully, Sydney was busy with her cereal, deeply preoccupied with her important teenage problems. Had she been paying attention, her lips would have been curled into a grimace, _blehh_ -ing at the silent exchange of affection.

“Besides,” she was saying, mouth full, “I’m sick of _high school_. I should be in college. I’m old enough to be _done_ with college. I’m sick of being smarter than everyone in my class and having to pretend I’m not.”

Bluntly, Victor said, “No one’s gonna buy you’re twenty.”

“That’s their problem. I have the papers to prove it.”

“Well,” Mitch interjected, “your new papers says you’re sixteen. And even that’s pushing your luck.”

“That’s so unfair—”

“Life is unfair. Graduate, and be done with it.”

Sydney scowled at Victor. Impassively, he met her stare.

Out loud, they said nothing. Mitch knew them well enough to fill in the gaps.

_Bold of you to tell me to graduate._

_I dropped out of college, Sydney, not high school._

_Same difference._

_Big difference._

He let them have at it for another minute. As un-related as they were, Sydney, at times, made a convincing photocopy of Victor.

“Listen, Syd. Two more years. It’s good to leave a paper trail. It makes us legitimate. You’ll have a diploma. People know you; they’ll remember you. It’s safe to have that to fall back on. If you were homeschooled your whole life, it would draw attention. To us, especially, as parents.”

Sydney dropped her spoon onto the tabletop with a clatter and raised her bowl to her mouth with both hands, slurping loudly as she finished off the milk. She then stood, scraping her chair against the hardwood the way she was specifically, repeatedly asked not to. She dropped the spoon into the bowl and sauntered off to put both in the dishwasher on her way out.

“I’m late,” she said. “And I won’t be home until nine tonight. I have a date.”

Victor made a strange, strangled sound. “Excuse me?”

“A date,” Sydney repeated. She leaned down by the front door and hauled her shoulder bag off the floor. “It’s that part of a relationship that you two skipped over.”

“Sydney—”

Mitch interrupted. “Where are you going?”

“To see a movie.”

Victor tried again. “Sydney. Who—?”

“Doesn’t matter who. I’ll text you guys when I get there and when I’m on my way back. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Don’t be weird.”

She looked at Victor as she said it.

“Sydney—”

“I’m an adult. Even fake-identity-me is an adult. Almost. Kind of. In two years. It’s fine. It’s just a movie.”

“Okay,” Mitch said firmly, loudly, before Victor could throw a tantrum. “Have fun.”

Sydney offered a tight smile in lieu of a goodbye and disappeared out the door. It slammed shut behind her.

Mitch leaned back in his seat and took a deep sip of his coffee, as Victor stared numbly at the spot where Sydney had just been standing. It would take time for him to process this. He was blatantly caught in the throes of his eternal conflict—caught between acting like he felt nothing, and caring so deeply, so openly it lit his insides aflame.

As much as he still pretended not to, he loved Sydney more than anything in the world. _Like a daughter._ And she loved him like a father. And they both stubbornly insisted otherwise.

He was most certainly going to be weird about this.

On cue, slowly as though in a trance, Victor finally turned to face him.

“No,” Mitch said.

Victor frowned. An open, naked confusion swept over his face, like he’d expected Mitch to side with him, like he couldn't grasp why _he_ was the one in the wrong.

“Don’t push. We’ve talked about this. _You two_ have talked about this. You give her space. She’ll tell you what she’s up to if she wants to. If she doesn’t, she probably has a reason not to. _Do not follow her_ —I know you’re thinking about it. Do not break her trust.”

The concentration with which Victor listened was endearing. He nodded, minutely, like he was memorizing instructions to follow, but at the same time wasn't entirely convinced they were correct. It made him look vulnerable, lost. He wanted so completely to do right by them, even as it clashed with what his gut told him to do.

“You let her get away with too much,” he said quietly. “With anything.”

Vividly, Mitch recalled moments, flashes. Victor and Sydney side by side on the sofa—her, working on something difficult for school, him, something illegal for work. Sydney getting stuck, groaning, fidgeting, knocking her head against Victor’s shoulder in frustration. Victor, letting her. It was him who let her get away with anything, with things anyone else would lose a limb for attempting.

“Forgive me if I sound like one of your parents’ books, but as she gets older, you have to let up. It’s only gonna get worse. You’re gonna have to start letting her get away with _more_.”

“I can’t do that. If anything happens to her—”

“Nothing will. It’s just a movie.”

“Not today. Tomorrow. The day after that. I need—she needs to be safe.”

Even now, years later, it was difficult for Victor to get the raw truth out. But despite that, he kept pushing, trying.

Mitch sighed. It was a fond sound. He lacked the words to express how touched he was by the effort.

He pushed himself up from the table and walked over to Victor, wrapped his arms around him from behind. Trapped, Victor gingerly set his phone down and returned the embrace, wrapping his hands around Mitch’s forearms where they crossed over his chest. Mitch thought his insides might burst. It was these little gestures that made his heart flutter, made him feel like he was coming down with a fever.

He turned his head, pressed a soft kiss to Victor’s temple.

“She knows that,” he said. “She’s still gonna act out. That’s just how it is.”

“She’s twenty-one.”

“You’re forty. Doesn't stop you.”

Victor half-turned in his arms, mildly insulted.

Mitch kissed him before he could get a word out, and told him, gently, “I will tie you to the bed, and I mean that in the most innocent way possible, if you even think about following her out tonight. She can take care of herself.”

“Okay,” Victor said hesitantly. For a moment, Mitch thought he’d won. “But if—”

“No _ifs_. You’re not entitled to know every little thing. Respect her choices. Don’t treat her like a child. I know you mean well. She knows it too, trust me.”

Victor frowned. His eyes swam out of focus like he had to concentrate on assembling all of this new information in his mind. Distantly, it made Mitch want to laugh. Victor always took him so seriously, followed his advice like his word was law, while Mitch made it all up as he went along. He didn't have a clue about parenting, let alone how to deal with a moody adolescent—especially one who was a full-grown adult in theory, and, in every other respect, barely fifteen. But he knew Victor needed these guidelines, a manual on where to draw the line.

Victor turned back around and leaned snugly into Mitch’s embrace.

“Fine.”

An affectionate smile crept up onto Mitch’s face. He gave Victor a little squeeze before untangling himself.

With a step to the side, he reached for Victor’s empty mug, then his own, and set off in search of more caffeine. There was something luxurious about it, even all these years after leaving Wrighton behind, about a second, a _third_ refill of coffee, the kind that didn't taste like something that’d come out of a faulty pipe.

He went through the motions with a sort of reverence. Black, two sugars for Victor. Foamed milk, vanilla, more special bits and bobs for himself. He didn't imagine it would ever get old.

Behind him, he could _feel_ Victor thinking too hard at the table. The air vibrated with restless energy.

“You’ll blow a fuse,” he warned, and it was never not funny, how literally he meant that.

When he sat back down, he slid Victor’s coffee over to him. Beneath the table, Dol made a snuffly sound and briefly attempted to gnaw on Mitch’s sock-clad foot.

Victor stared blankly at his mug. He would stress about it—what Sydney told him, what Mitch instructed him not to do—for an hour or two, until Mitch snapped him out of it, like dragging a disobedient puppy away from a scuffle by the scruff of its neck.

Sydney, meanwhile, would arrive at school and do her homework quickly in her lap out in the hall before class; she always experienced a brief burst of motivation following their little talks. Her grades would get back on track. It was a routine. Time would pass, and then it would happen all over again. As much as she whined and moaned, she wanted to graduate, she wanted to go to college—if only to rub it in Victor’s face that she got her degree.

It wasn't a bad life. Things could be worse. In their case, they often were. Boring was good. Boring was safe. Mitch had had enough trouble for a lifetime.

And he wouldn't trade this for anything—this family they had pieced together.

Across the table, Victor, too, was deep in thought.

“You know how—” he started. “What Sydney said about going on dates?”

“Vic—”

“No, I mean what she said about us.”

Involuntarily, Mitch’s hands tightened around his mug. Victor was so flippant, so calm about things that pricked at Mitch like thorns, like he still couldn't understand how deeply love could cut.

Perhaps it was a good thing—a firm shoulder to lean on when Mitch felt like he might lose control.

“Go on.”

Victor jerked in what might have been a shrug.

“She was right.”

Mitch huffed. “There wasn't much time for it, was there? Between breaking out and—everything that happened after.”

He didn't want to say any of it aloud. It still dragged him awake some nights, trembling, terrified, the memory of Victor dying, dying, _dead_.

“We’re only married on paper, too,” he added. “It’s all very theoretical, this relationship.”

The words stung but they were fact, and he presented them as such. The marriage was part of a cover story. Fact. Whatever it was that was really between them—they’d never bothered to put a label on it. They had always just _been_.

Victor pursed his lips. “Do you want to fix that?”

“The marriage part, or—”

“The dating part,” Victor said. “Though we could find the time for _that_ , too.”

Mitch’s heart did a somersault. He assured himself it was perfectly normal to feel a little nauseous, but in a good way, when his husband, who wasn't really his husband, implied he would like to become his husband. _Mitch-at-Wrighton_ would have passed out.

He took a shaky breath; he hoped it didn't look as unsteady as it felt. There was no time to discuss this today. It wasn't the sort of decision to be made on a whim. They had to go on a _date_ first.

“What do you suggest?”

Victor’s face split into a wide smile. It wasn't one of the cold ones that chilled Mitch to the bone, or one of the tiny, gentle ones Victor let slip from under the covers early in the morning, half asleep and a tad delirious, the ones Mitch loved to kiss from his lips.

This was a genuine smile, bright and giddy. It was rare to see Victor amused, truly, properly on the verge of laughter; it was the most beautiful thing Mitch had ever seen.

But it scared him, too, because Victor’s jokes were never funny. He braced himself for the worst.

“What do you say—” Victor started, tilted his head, paused for dramatic effect, “—we go catch a movie?”

Mitch wanted to kick him.

“You’re horrible.”

Victor laughed; his shoulders shook, his eyes crinkled at the edges. Mitch’s soul left his body.

“Fine. Sorry. I’m sorry,” Victor said softly. He was still smiling. Mitch never wanted him to stop smiling. “Dinner, then?”

Victor was well aware of the extent of Mitch’s feelings. They were reciprocated, after all. Still, Mitch hesitated. He didn't want to come off as _too_ desperate, didn't want to make it too obvious that he was so in love he could die. Victor’s ego was inflated enough. He was hesitating for Victor’s sake.

A few seconds passed in dizzying silence.

“Dinner,” he agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> loosely inspired by [this thread](https://twitter.com/finaIizer/status/1212400536064069632?s=20)
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/finaIizer) & [tumblr](https://tarmairons.tumblr.com)


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